Page 18 of Pocketful of Us

"Him," he said, pointing straight at me. His gaze flicked to my face and I didn't miss the keen interest in his brown eyes – or the oddly familiar whiskey-colored irises.

I narrowed my eyes.

He smirked in return. "You look just like him."

Whiskey colored eyes.

Hair like the sun.

No.

Fucking.

Way!

It was him.

The other twin.

It had to be.

He had hereyes.

"Giacobbe," he hissed at the same time I demanded, "Where is she?"

"Giacobbe Toretto," he repeated, watching me with the same level of hostility as I watched him. "It seems that you and I have a lot to talk about."

"Well, this just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it? Sweet Sasha Fierce, I feel like I'm trapped in an episode of Doctor freaking Who!" Presley declared in dramatic fashion, turning his attention to the guy being held at gunpoint. "Okay," he said, pressing his fingers to his temples. "Going off your uncanny resemblance to a dear friend of mine, I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark here and assume that you'reSeth?"

"You can take your assumptions and shove them up your ass, pretty boy."

"No thanks, it's rather difficult to give it to my – hold up!" Turning to grin at me, Pres asked, "Did he just call mepretty?"

With my adrenalin pumping, and my heart gunning wildly in my chest, I staggered to my feet, completely ignoring Presley's hormone-induced question in the process. "Do you know where she is?"

"Maybe. Call off your guard dog and I might have an easier time remembering," he answered. "You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours."

"How about you tell me what you know before I break your face?"

He smirked. "Are you always this reckless?"

"Usually. Are you always this much of an asshole?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sketch, what the hell isthat?" Presley demanded, breaking the stare down between me and Seth, and looking a little mystified in the process. "How are you doing this?"

I frowned. "How am I doing what?"

"He was speaking to you in a completely different language," Pres breathed, looking rattled. "And you wereansweringhim, man."

I stared blankly back at him. "Iwas?"

"Yeah, Sketch, you were."

"Not a foreign language. Not to Jacob, at least. It his mother tongue," my father said, sounding proud. "It's all coming back to him."

"Well I'll be goddammed," Presley breathed, eyes like saucers. "That's one hell of an impressive party trick."

"Let him go," I ordered with a tilt of my chin, never once taking my eyes off the male version of Romi.

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